Marking the Hours
by Hadeed
Summary: Done for the femShep contest. Esperanza Shepard handles confinement poorly until an old friend drops in, needing some help with another little problem. First person. Mildly noir.


One. Two. Three. It's all in the movements: keep your wrist loose up until the strike, then stiffen up. No jokes, please. A punching bag, a mercenary in fancy armor, a pillow: it's all the same thing, and it's damn fun to see how fast I can take it apart. It's about finding soft spots, figuring out how to snap your wrist as you hit, and letting the power carry you.

Biotics never came naturally to me. I know some can flick a finger and glow blue, just like that. As easily as breathing. It's not like that for me. I can barely project a meter around my body. Get inside the barriers, though, and it's a whole different story. Maybe it's a mental block. Maybe I just like to be there for the smack of bone hitting bone.

My guard's watching me. Big kid. I've been watching him. He is just a kid, though. Isn't sure if he's as good as he thinks he is, so he's packing enough bluster for a volus. Everyone puts up barriers. Some of us do it better than others.

One. Two. Three. I can feel my legs flex. There's a smoothness that wasn't there before I died. A busted knee, a broken nose, a scar ripping my face in half, a couple dumb tattoos… The whole lot, gone into old holos and my memory. Courtesy of the Illusive Man's personal medical miracle squad. I still favor the leg now and then out of habit, and I've caught myself looking for the scar in the mirror more times than I want to count. After I first woke up, I barely recognized my face when I caught a quick glimpse of it. Instead, I had the scars of the implants puckering my skin, a constant reminder of what Cerberus had installed in me.

So I did them one better. Part of that smoothness in my leg is that the bones are surrounded by metallic fibers. My muscles are perforated and reinforced , giving me enough strength to go toe to toe with a krogan if I want to. There's been times when I've wanted to. And under my skin, there's a lattice of armor. All over. When I look in the mirror deep enough, I can see a slight off tint in my eyelids. And the implants in my eyes, of course. That's faded, but I can still see the pinnings. And yeah, I do that too.

I speed up. Maybe I'm showing off. Maybe I just don't want to think about how crazy I've gotten, pinned in this pretty cage with soft beds and all the warm, fresh food I can eat. Books, clothes, vids…. Everything but a new set of orders. I need orders. I settle for the feel of my hand smacking into the bag. The slight tearing of skin over the weave of metal. The roughness of the bag. The twitch of muscle fibers. The feel of my body leaning in and then away. Smack. Smack. Smack. Perfect.

I try to pretend this is a normal reaction. The truth is that I've spent my whole life being a tool. The big choice I've made is whose blunt instrument I'll be. No doubt, my standards have risen. From the Reds to the Alliance to the Council…. And now I'm cut loose. I've got a uniform that I'm not sure is mine. I'm waiting until the Alliance figures out how to try a Council Spectre for mass murder. I bet it's a lot of paperwork.

For now, the only thing in my hands is this damn bag. And it's looking a bit worn. I look around. A couple guards and me, a gym that looks like it's seen too many soldiers on involuntary leave and not enough janitors… The bag squeaks as I hit it again. I decide to put the damn thing out of its misery. I trigger that implant. I may not be a natural biotic, or a hotshot like Alenko, but when it comes to punching, hotshots like Alenko aren't in my league. I let loose, letting biotics speed my fist, strengthen my snap, carry the punch. I love that sound. God, I love that feeling. The bag rips off its chain as my fist hits it. It bounces a couple times, spitting filling where the stitches came loose.

I pick it up, sling it over a shoulder. Smile. I know how I look. I'm on the tall side, dark skin, black hair, green eyes, square face with harsh features. Dominated by my nose and thick, dark eyebrows. The charitable call me handsome or striking. In an age of beauties, I'm blunt and coarse. No mama paid for any refinements on my face. I didn't have anyone running a scan and catching the flaws in the womb. No coaching and a lean, rough diet as a kid wrecked my chances as a vidstar. Then I got chomped on by a maw and spaced, among other things. Oh well. I made a better boxer. And I'm a damn good soldier. I chuck the bag in the dumpster, smile at Vega. "I'd kill for some coffee."

My not too subtle point being, of course, if I wasn't a good soldier, a perfectly trained dog, it's possible I could rip my way right out of here. But the Council wouldn't approve, and that's a leash I'm not willing to slip. I worked with goddamn Cerberus, the people who turned maws loose on me and mine just to see what would happen, because the Council gave oblique permission. I can wait. I just don't have to like it. It's amazingly frustrating being leashed and muzzled while those damned machines get closer and closer to everything I love. I'm not going to help the galaxy by pitching a fit, though, and it's bigger than just me.

I have to remember that. Augmentation and all, I'm just one soldier. I've passed the problem up the chain of command. It's no longer mine to deal with until I get told otherwise. So here I float in limbo. Limbo has awful coffee. It sits in the heaters forever, until it gets burnt to that godawful brown glass color and tastes more of carbon than of beans. I drink it with enough sugar to mask that ever since the implant, but it's the principle of the thing. I used to appreciate good coffee.

We reach the mess. It's small. Guards again, mostly prefabricated chow, but the good stuff, a grade above. You never know when one of the bigwigs might want a bite. My tail breaks off. I watch him go. Cute kid. Oblivious to the fact that I've spent a considerable amount of time contemplating the fastest way to take him down. I go to pick up a mug, and smell the coffee in the heater. It actually looks fresh, and smells vaguely of coffee. I think I'd opt for brute force. It'd take a couple of hits. I'd start by slamming into one shoulder. Break a clavicle. I rip open two sugar packets. Then nose. I pour them methodically into my coffee. I grab another, checking to make sure it's real brown sugar, not fake garbage. He'll know what to do with the pain, but if I can cripple him, get enough blood in his face, one more good hit, probably to the base of the ribcage, and he'll be down. Of course, it'd make a lot of noise.

I take a quick sip. It still tastes burnt. At this point, I think the burnt taste just haunts the coffee pot. At least the sugar mostly overpowers that. And that's the last clear thought I have before my head starts to feel really heavy. Most of the times I've fainted, it's been because someone smacked me in the face with a Prothean beacon, or sheer outright exhaustion. This wasn't like that. This was sudden. I was on my feet wondering whether the coffee was worth finishing or whether I should just pour the sugar packets straight in my mouth and take a caffeine pill. Then, mysteriously, I was facedown on the floor, and everything felt weighted.

I hear voices. I try to assure everyone I feel fine, but then I fade out unceremoniously again. When I wake up this time, I'm in the facility's minimal hospital. I seem to be unattended, and there's no machines hooked into me. I move. A nurse rushes in from outside. "Commander Shepard!" She's young, can't be any older than twenty five. Short. Bright blonde hair, worn too long. She's proud of it. Hazel eyes. Gorgeous. And soft. I know if I wanted to bust out of my featherbed prison, this would be the time. I wouldn't even have to kill her. Of course I don't. She admonishes me for letting myself get dehydrated. I listen in mild astonishment. I'm sure I haven't. But she seems convinced my fainting spell is because I haven't been getting enough fluids. I tell her I have been. The chipper nurse refuses to relent until I promise to mix some powders into my drinks. She goes about setting up a link to my omnitool, 'only for the next twenty four hours, Commander, to make sure your vitals are normal.' Like they don't have me monitored all the time.

I get up. It's like wearing a set of un-motorized armor. Everything feels fuzzy, and what doesn't feel distant, with only a nodding relation to my actual body, hurts. I especially feel it in the beds of my nails. I wobble and nearly fall over, which is so damned unexpected I just stand there for a second with the cute little nurse burbling around me, fingers hovering by me. What the hell does she think she'll do, catch me if I take a tumble? Good luck with that, lady. She stays long enough for me to shrug her off. And then I head back to my quarters, head committing armed, vindictive insurrection with every tooth-jarring step. I'd say I feel like death, but honestly, death was pretty fast and the adrenaline was still covering the pain by the time I ran out of air. This was a hell of a lot more persistent.

Somewhere, I pick Vega back up. Not quite sure when, which worries me more about my present condition than anything else. I'm not Garrus. I don't notice and plan for near everything, but I've usually got good enough instincts to notice a marine lumbering behind me. I guess I'm pretty focused on getting the whole walking thing down to an art. Right now, it's more of a finger painting than a Picasso. When I get to my room, I'm surprised. It was one of those walks where every individual moment took forever, but the whole thing slipped by dreamily, and left me wondering what the hell happened. I key in. I see my bed. I take a few more steps and apply my face directly to it. Yeah, that feels real good. I hear Vega walk away. I flop over. Stare at the ceiling. Remember I'm grounded. I've got no ship. Yeah, the Council has other Spectres. They might not need me, but I sure as hell need them. I need to be out there, pretending my shotgun and my fists can make the galaxy a better place. They better, because that's pretty much all I've got to offer. I turn on the Urban Combat league. It's tryouts. I let the announcer rave on about pretty, cleaned up violence in armor that tops anything the Alliance issues because playing at war pays so much better than the real thing.

Usually I like watching the games. It's nice to see a safe, anesthetized version of combat where most everyone goes home at the end of the day, and both sides can have a beer together after the game. It's fun to watch, too. It's… simple. Neat. Garrus never really understood when I put it on in my quarters. He understood competition. He didn't quite get indirect competition, or why I was convinced that wearing my shirt inside out helped the Blood Dragons pull off a win.

Damn. I miss Garrus. I stare at the ceiling and tune out the game, and I think about bright blue eyes and the pop of a sniper rifle. Blunted claws on my bare skin and the hiss of excitement he doesn't know he makes when he sees a way to make a good kill. Garrus understood wanting.

I want that big turian and a bottle of whiskey, sun on a river, maybe a knife, miles away from anything smart enough to wonder 'why am I here' or 'can I have another drink?'. I don't even know exactly what I want from him, but I sure would have liked a chance to find out. I realize I'm wallowing. Then I realize something's off about my room.

I freeze. Maybe not the best move. I can hear my heart speed up. More than that, I can feel it pounding over my cuticles. I turn the game off with a flick of my wrist, standing up. I hear a little tinkling laugh, then the soft hiss of a tactical cloak being turned off. She's small. Maybe two hands shorter than me, and three or four narrower across the shoulders. She's sitting in my chair by the window, all long legs and black leather, pale skin and slender arms.

She's an old friend, assuming she really has friends. Last time she got really close to someone, it didn't work out for her. I know how that goes. There's a lot of things I should say to her. Meant to say to her, if I ever saw her again. Sorry at the start of it, and the end of it, too. I drug her through a lot of shit no one as fiercely innocent as the self-proclaimed best thief in the galaxy should have to see because I needed to use her. For a good cause, but let's be honest. I bought her with my gun and used her. I've never hesitated to use a weapon, and not many come through cleaner afterwards. I took her to hell, got her shot at, forced her to look at some of the worst the galaxy has to offer, and in the end, I got her to destroy every trace of her lover, because I needed her safe and focused. I should apologize to her. I don't.

"Kasumi. Wasn't expecting to see you here." My throat feels dry. I don't meet where her eyes would be, under that hood. It's trouble. No one ever finds me just to chat. Probably my company's not all that good. "I'd offer you a drink, but it's not my house."

She cracks the bare edge of a smile. Looks natural on her. Good to know I haven't broken her entirely. "Shep. You look thirsty anyway." She freezes as she realizes what she just said. I freeze as I figure it out. I feel my nails dig into my palm, a muscle jump along my jaw. She poisoned me. She did this to me. She's fast. Agile. I'd have to trigger the biotics and hit her hard with them, charge right down her throat. Kasumi doesn't have any heavy protection in that luscious black leather suit. I'd still want to break an arm, ankle, maybe a leg too, in the initial charge. I can feel it in my bones. I'd have to be fast. I'm not healthy enough to prolong a fight, and Kasumi can run circles around me. I can be fast. I could take her down right now. I turn my back on her. I sit back down on my bed.

I fold my arms, breathing slowly. Akuze never gave up its grip on me. I always need an out. I need to know how I can get out. I need to know I can control the situation. When I'm fighting, I want to be the reason there's screaming in the dark. The thing is, you're safe if you're the monster. If you pick who holds your leash carefully, you can be a good monster.

"So you finally put me in the hospital, Ms. Goto." My voice carries the ghost of a growl. I can hear it. Self control has limits.

She speaks a bit quickly, voice high with relief and her usual quick wit as the moment passes safely. "You did take me into a base where they turned people into genetic goo. Horrible genetic goo." She tries to smile. I can see it still bothers her.

It was just one more bad dream for me. Maybe Kasumi didn't have enough of them before she met me. That's one joke I won't make. She wouldn't appreciate it. I shoot back, "You did make me wear a dress." I pause for emphasis. "And heels."

"You looked good in them." She points out blithely. She takes refuge in banter. I let her breeze. She'll get to the point eventually. She talks about nothing. I return to the bed, listening vaguely. Kasumi's all surface, all gloss and glitter. It's probably why she's such an innocent. She never goes deeper. And if she is, she sure as hell doesn't let it show. I laugh when I'm supposed to, breezing right back at her. Sort of. My breezing isn't like Kasumi's. There's less of it, and I don't give as much. I don't ask what she needs. I don't ask why someone I considered a friend left me laying in medbay. I wait for it to come out, and run over scenarios in my head. She chats. I wait.

"So, aren't you even a bit curious as to why I'm here?" I start listening again. Not that listening to Kasumi talk is hard. She has a soft, gentle voice. I always wondered what got her into her world - fancy clothes, fast cars, lots of money, and really good security. Poor kid. She lives on the gilding.

"Yeah. I'm curious. I figured you'd tell me eventually." I get up, refusing to let my legs shake as I go to the window. There's some bottled water on my bookshelf. I pour the powders in. Drink it. Don't turn to look at her. I can hear her shift on the chair.

"It's about the greybox." She sounds hesitant. Shy. She really hates giving up personal stuff, does our Ms. Goto.

"Yeah, no one ever poisons me just to chat." That shoots out of my mouth before I can catch it. I try to regret letting it go. It doesn't work.

"Ouch. You know, Shep, security's pretty tight around here." Her voice trails off. After a couple breaths, she continues. "And it's hard to get the right dosage on a cyborg." She's trying to make a joke out of it.

"So?"

"So I need a code. Some of the data that didn't get wiped… Well, I had to keep a few fragments! Anyway, I'm trying to decrypt it. And I know just who has a copy saved. He even has a nice, old monograph of Ivan Bilibin's woodcuts." She comes up beside me, giving me a quick smile. "Oh. And a few mechs in his private quarters."

I sigh. I knew it. "So why do you need me?"

"They're a pain to hack. And I thought you might need a break."

She's right about that. I do need a break. But that's not what's on my mind. There had to have been an easier way to contact me than putting me in the hospital. I assume she did something to my omnitool when I was out, got the codes to my door… But why all of this? Revenge for what I put her through? She actually wants to see me? Maybe it's just to prove a point. Look at how easily I could have killed you, through some of the best security in the galaxy. Aren't you glad we're on the same side? Or hell, maybe it is just surface. A handy way to make a payday, satisfy some curiosity, and use an old friend for both. "Thought we wiped the greybox to keep you out of trouble."

She ducks her head. I can't read any of her face under the hood. "I couldn't resist picking through some of the pieces, Shep. Just to see what was left. And you know how it is with a riddle. Once you start, it's hard not to want to finish."

Especially for her. And, if I'm honest, me. We're both awful at letting well enough alone. I do it for the galaxy, or at least tell myself I do. She does it because she's never been able to resist a mystery or a challenge. She's got me. We both know it. Now it's just a matter of seeing how hard I'll make her work to get me to sign on. How many questions I'll need answered. As it happens, just a few.

"Whatever you get…. You'll be careful with it? You won't make me regret this?" I really, really hope I don't regret this.

"Of course, Shepard." She sounds a bit insulted.

"Fine. I'm in. Just give me some time to recover." I drink more water, swish it around my mouth. "Oh. And one more thing, Kasumi."

"Yeah?"

"No dresses this time." She laughs, cloaking, and then she's gone. I can smell a whiff of her perfume. Roses. Subtle. Classy. Expensive.

I have a quiet night. Wherever Kasumi is, she doesn't bother me. I load myself with food, heavy on complex carbs and proteins. I gulp as much water as I can. If I'm going to fight, I'll need the energy to flare, and I'll need the last effects of whatever the thief put in my system gone. Two days go by, back into the same dull routine. I eat and exercise, put in a report. I move between the mess, my room, and the gym, over and over. People talk to me, but they don't really listen. I killed a lot of people. It's hard to square a monster who could wipe out a system with an actual, breathing human. I get that. Even harder to square that with Shepard, the Savior of the Citadel. I say what I always say. They're coming. I know I sounds crazy. I know what I've been through. I sometimes hope I've just lost it, become another soldier who's seen too much. If the Reapers are real, then we're in way over our heads.

She shows up on the third day, while I'm settling in with a book on the history of boxing. Some of the images are really jerky, but it's old. My door opens, and she comes in out of the shadows. "Shep! Hey!"

"Hey. I was beginning to think you'd taken care of it."

"And leave you out?" She laughs. "Hold your arm out." I do. She does something to my omnitool, fingers darting across my bare forearm. Her gloves are silky and silent. I realize how long it's been since anyone touched me - a hug, a handshake, a punch, anything like deliberate human contact. You know, just reaching out to touch. I missed it. I realize how lonely I've been, and it scares the hell out of me. The Normandy, her people… It got to me. I let a lot of people through my barriers, and I got used to it. Then it ended.

"There," Kasumi offers softly. "That should be enough." She turns my arm one way, then the other, presumably inspecting the program. "It's a high spiking tactical cloak. It'll keep you hidden for a couple hours, and it has three charges. You'll be able to find me and my cloak on your display. I also … ahem, took the liberty of hacking your door and the feed on you for the night, too. As far as anyone knows, you'll be right here, enjoying your lovely book about hitting people. You know, Shep, most people read books to do something _different."_

I grunt. I stand up and trigger the cloak. We head out the door. It's odd walking through the hallways without Vega. Without people seeing me. There's an art to this walking silently under the cloak, and it's just as well it's late, because I stink at it. Fortunately, there's not many people left in the building, and most that are, are asleep. I follow my guide. I have some trouble doing it. It's odd, watching my omnitool to know where to walk.

She stops, and I can hear the faint sounds of her working on a door. I press myself against the wall and wait. Then I wait some more. I've long since accepted being a tech involves a lot of downtime, playing with machines and code. I think of Garrus, of course. It's hard not to. It's a pleasant enough occupation.

I'm broken out of my thoughts by a low whistle from Kasumi. "That wasn't so bad," she whispers. "Alarms are dead. All right, Shep. Get to work." The door slides open. Four Loki mechs turn towards us. We duck through the door. Kasumi shuts it behind us. It's a nice room. Nearly soundproof. Pretty. Big.

My barriers come up. The cloak drops, and I come out of the shadows roaring, biotics flaring all around me as I let them propel me forward, impossibly fast. I hit the first mech, feel the plating flex under my body. I feel it buckle, slamming the heel of my hand down into the faceplate. The sound of tortured metal shrieks and I feel a bolt hit my barrier. Oh god. It burns so sweetly, like good whiskey. I come up, roll under another shot, feel the hum of my barriers and the blood thrumming through my ears. I love this song. I charge into the next one as the downed mech explodes. It's so good. My world is blue with the glow of my biotics. I can feel every inch of my skin. I know what I'm going to do.

Crunch. It grabs for me. Slow. Clumsy. Eminently, deliciously breakable. Another shot sings at me. I whirl. It hits the mech, breaking something. Maybe the motor functions, because the legs and one arm stops working, and it beeps. I run, pure adrenaline and muscle. I can see Kasumi out of the corner of my eye. She's standing over the console. She looks busy.

My lips are peeled back from my teeth. My breath saws at my throat and DAMN, but I feel so good. I duck behind the bed, hearing them close in. No gun. No weapons. No problem. I wriggle into the corner, bracing my shoulders against the wall and shoving my feet up against the bed. Then I kick.

Have you ever seen a fourposter get hit by a semi? The sheer force I summon half-explodes the bed. Stuffing, blankets, and bits of metal fly. I'd probably get hit by some of the shrapnel…. If I was still there. I'm moving with the bed as it slams into the mechs. I smash the head of the nearest into the wall, hearing it crack. I can feel my knuckles give slightly, the faint tear of calloused flesh, the friction of the metal underneath the skin against the metal of the mech's head.

And then, just like that, it's over. I look around. I'm surrounded by bits and pieces, none of it longer than my arm. My whole corner is wreckage. I feel amazing, but I'm coming off my high. And I'm really hungry. And… That's it. That's all. I head over to Kasumi, away from my blast zone of debris and exploded robots, and sit down on the carpet. There's a few scratches on my arms. Barriers are good, biotics are good, metal woven skin is better, but there's a reason I wear armor.

Kasumi grins at me. "Almost got it. Don't worry. I'll dump any bits with blood on them." She looks back at the screen. "So now what, Shep?"

"I guess I go back to my room." I don't really feel like talking.

"You know, you don't have to. You can get out of here. I can help. You could just leave."

I lean my head back into the wall, close my eyes. Just leave. Suddenly I'm exhausted. Leave the mess, and the awful coffee, and the mind numbing tedium, and being a war criminal, and no one believing me. I could just walk right out, but I'm a good dog. Whatever else Esperanza Shepard is or isn't, she's a creature of duty. And she has to hang, metaphorically or not, so the galaxy can stand together. So I have to stay. No escape. No freedom.

This war will be bigger than me. One soldier is a drop in the bucket. There's always plenty of leaders, but never enough scapegoats. And I shouldn't go unpunished for what I did. I had no choice. They would have died anyway when the Reapers hit. But…. Well, that doesn't make what I did right. Or forgivable. Just what I had to do. Besides. I need to know I did my best. My best is what I always do. Following orders. Being a good Spectre. Taking the fall. Doing everything I can to keep what's left of my credibility intact. Someone might listen to me about the Reapers before it's too late, but for there to be a remote chance of that happening, I need to stay.

I open my eyes. "I can't."

"All right, Shep. I can't say I understand, but it's your funeral." While I wait for Kasumi to finish her hack and find her book, I think about a bottle of brandy, a tall turian, and a ship that can challenge any sky.


End file.
